Going Through The Motions
by Amy Renee
Summary: How do you devote your life to killing the things of nightmares, only to end up shot by some guy in an alleyway? Feeling your blood running through your fingers lying on the damp dirty pavement in the dreary glow of a street lamp, Sam finds it pretty much happens like this, and he welcomes it. Set in Season 4.


This is one of the stories I began years ago and only now have finally finished it. It takes place in Season 4. I wrote a few fics during Season 4 because of the growing rift between the brothers. I wanted my stories to capture the tension of that season.

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Going Through the Motions

" _If I didn't know you, I would want to hunt you."_

He keeps hearing Dean's words in his head. The cat was out of the bag now. His brother knew. He had partly thought there would be some relief in it, not having to hide it anymore, but there wasn't. They work. They go through the motions, but nothing is okay. Swept under the rug but not gone; Pushed down but just under the surface.

" _If I didn't know you, I would want to hunt you."_

Nothing is okay.

They stop for a bite and beers at the bar. They sit across the table from one another, same as always. Dean seems forcefully casual and impersonal, but at least he's talking to Sam. After the third beer, as though he's anxious to leave, Dean calls it: Time to hit the road and find a place to crash. Sam leads the way out the back door, Dean following after leaving money on the table.

They step out into cool damp air, the darkness dimly lit by a couple of street lights. Sam sees the man standing with his back to them as they exit and begin walking down the alley in the opposite direction, but pays no mind. Then there he is catching up quickly behind them.

"Hey, excuse me," he says with some urgency to get their attention. "Do you guys have a couple of bucks you could spare?"

They turn to face him, stopping a few feet away. He's a younger man in his early 20's, his hands jammed into the pockets of his light green sweatshirt with the hood up against the drizzle that had recently departed. He has a polite yet nervous smile. Dean, who had been behind Sam, stands to Sam's left and now slightly in front.

"Nah, man. Sorry," he says.

The guy lets out a jittery chuckle and drops his head before raising it along with a handgun from his right pocket; before either hunter can go for his own weapon.

"Then I'll take whatever you got." The false politeness is gone from his voice as he tries to sound in control while pointing the gun, training it slightly back and forth on both brothers.

"Whoa, whoa," Dean says evenly, putting his hands up in a gesture of compliance. Behind him he knows Sam is doing the same.

"Give me everything you got," he demands, gun waiving at them. He is shaky and inexperienced, but is still pointing a presumably loaded weapon at them. Besides, it was the nervous ones that posed the more unpredictable actions.

"Hey, we don't want any trouble here," Sam offers, "You can have my wallet and go." He says it as calmingly as he can and reaches into his jacket pocket to retrieve it.

It's only a split second that he breaks eye contact with the guy holding the gun on him, but it's long enough to see the man's face contort in apprehension and realize he's made a mistake. He hears the retort of the weapon, and then feels pressure above his right hip that sends that side of his body slightly backwards. He sees the man stumbling back, almost tripping. His eyes are frantic and his extended arm drops before he's turning and running.

"Hey!" he hears Dean shout furiously. He sees Dean out of his peripheral, his eyes wide and looking at Sam. Then Sam feels the pain explode in his side.

He sucks in a breath, squeezing his eyes closed against the pain flaring in his stomach. Sam's hands instinctively go to the source. The white hot ache spreads to his hip and his leg starts to buckle under it. There's a firm but not hurting pressure on his shoulder: Dean's hand, trying to steady him. It's not enough. He allows the decent to the ground to finish, curling in on himself with an arm wrapped around his middle. Dean's other hand is on the other shoulder now. Sam attempts to uncoil, to get himself to his knees and get off the ground.

"Stay down," he hears Dean order, and those hands are pushing him back to the ground and turning him on his back. Dean hits his knees and pushes the bottom of Sam's over-shirt up and quickly sees the growing red wetness seeping through his t-shirt on his lower abdomen above his right hip.

"Shit," he mutters.

As Dean pulls Sam's t-shirt up he sees the source. The hole is deep. Blood bubbles up from it and starts to trail down Sam's side. Dean gently rolls Sam to his left, feeling his brother's back for an exit wound and ignoring Sam's grunt of pain. His hand contacts something warm and wet, affirming his fear. Dean's eyes grow wilder as he looks from the wound to Sam's face. Sam has his head raised. His eyebrows are scrunched in pain and curiosity as he watches his brother, searching for the state of his condition in the older man's face or body language. Despite any attempt at a calm bravado, Sam immediately sees the fear behind Dean's features, and he knows. He lets his head slowly fall back to the ground.

Dean's left hand quickly goes to the entry wound and presses down on it, earning another low grunt from Sam. Dean can feel thick warm blood seeping out between his fingers at a faster rate. He quickly shrugs out of his long sleeve shirt. Bunching it up, he pushes it under the exit wound in Sam's back with one hand, keeping the other pressed down tightly against his brother's hip. He fumbles a hand into his pants pocket and pulls out his cell phone. He flips it open but before he can dial he feels a hand on top of his wrist, lightly pushing it down. He looks up to Sam's face. His features are calm, almost resolved.

"I have to call for help. I can't patch this up."

"No." He shakes his head.

"Sam, I have to or you'll bleed out" Dean repeats picking up the phone again.

"No," Sam states again, more affirmatively.

Sam's voice registers and Dean looks back at Sam's face, searching. His brother only continues to look at him, willing him. Dean's brow furrows in realization.

"You wanna die," he voices quietly. It's a statement of the realization, but it still comes out somewhat as a question- Disbelief. Somewhere inside he's not willing to finalize the possibility with a statement but ask, beg to be proven wrong.

Sam doesn't respond. He turns his head back to the dismal night sky. Dean is caught off guard. Sam's hand is on top of his over the gushing entry wound, pushing it away. In his stupor Dean somehow lets him, only managing to stare at his brother. Sam's hand stops to rest lightly over his hip, as if to deter his older brother from trying to staunch the blood flow. Sam can feel the warmth of the vital liquid leaving his body. The sharp hot pain through his lower abdomen is now becoming a dull ache and he feels himself tiring and growing cold.

Sam lets out a small chuckle at the irony; how do you devote your life to killing the things of nightmares, only to end up shot by some guy in an alleyway? Feeling your blood running through your fingers lying on the damp dirty pavement in the dreary glow of a street lamp, Sam finds it pretty much happens like this, and he welcomes it.

"It should have happened a long time ago," he says still not meeting Dean's gaze. "If not for me… mom and dad, they'd still be here. You'd be happy," he says now looking to his brother. "This is right, Dean… It's okay."

Sincerity and guilt. That was Sam. Except this time he should feel guilty. He had lied, gone behind Dean's back, drank demon blood and used the powers given to him by the very demon that killed their parents.

" _If I didn't know you, I would want to hunt you."_

Dean had known what he was saying. He needed Sam to know how far he'd gone, that it wasn't okay. But neither was this.

Something like a switch flipping snaps Dean back into awareness. He feels the blood coating his hands, both stiff and drying and wet and slick; He sees his younger brother's color paling, eyes dulling. He sees the guilt-driven and at-peace determination in his face.

"Like hell it is," he growls and forcefully presses his hand down hard on Sam's over top of the leaking injury. Sam lets out a hiss, brightness returning to those now wide eyes as he looks at his brother with surprise.

"Dean…"

"No, Sam," Dean dismisses with stronger rival determination. He reclaims his phone and dials, trying not to notice how Sam looks away or the disappointed and hurt look on his face.

A light drizzle starts up again, misting the brother lying on the pavement with his warm life running out of him and the other brother on his knees above him, hand on top of the other's trying to stop it. Sam's body begins to tremble under Dean's hand. Dean looks at him and sees tears sliding down the sides of his face.

"Sam…" he begins. He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know where to go from here.

Sam returns his gaze. It's weary and overcome. Dean squeezes the hand under his. Sam closes his eyes.

Sam had undergone surgery and two transfusions to repair the damage. Thankfully it could be repaired. Dean knew that not all damage done can be. He sits beside his brother's hospital bed, watching the steady rise and fall of Sam's chest. A sight and rhythm he knows very well and a hundred times over by now. His brother was still here, but he lost him too. He doesn't blame himself for being angry. He has the right to be. He doesn't know if he could ever not be or if he can ever have _his_ Sam back. Hell, he doesn't even know how to deal with this.

"Good morning," a voice says.

Dean looks up to see a pretty twenty-something red-haired nurse come in to check Sam's vitals.

"Morning," he responds.

When she finishes she looks at Dean. "You've been here a while. You're brothers, right? Dean nods.

"Are you two close?" Dean stares at her blankly, searching.

"He's my brother," he says after a moment. His voice sounds disconnected to him, but as he says it, conviction then realization fills him. It's such a simple statement, but it explains and encompasses everything. Always has. The word "brother" has never been just a word to the Winchesters, and never for the eldest.

The red head smiles admiringly at him and leaves to continue her rounds. Dean looks back to Sam.

" _I would want to hunt you"_

" _He's my brother."_

Dean places a hand on Sam's chest, feeling the heartbeat under his palm. It's something he's done before, when Sam had been down and out, just needing that comfort, that confirmation that his brother was here and everything was okay. How have they gotten here?

He feels a warm hand gently grip his wrist and looks up. Sam is looking at him through half open eyes.

"Welcome back, Sam." He offers a smile, and it's genuine because it really is good to see him alive and okay, even if nothing else is okay.

Sam actually offers a small smile of his own in return. It tugs at something familiar in Dean's chest.

"We're okay," he says softly. He had meant to say _You're okay_. He doesn't realize it. He won't know if he believed it or it was just hope. Sam holds his gaze, blinking heavily. His small smile fades and he drifts back to sleep, hand lying to rest back at his side. Dean lets his hand linger on his brother's chest a moment longer. Maybe they aren't just going through the motions. Maybe things will be okay. After all, they're brothers.


End file.
